


Another Fine Mess

by Lyaka



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Convenient Lab Explosion, F/M, I really just wanted more Brig and Missy interaction, Lighthearted D/s banter, M/M, Multi-Doctor Self-Indulgent Crackfest, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:54:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2609282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyaka/pseuds/Lyaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve gets careless in the lab and accidentally whips up a space/time paradox. The Brigadier is not amused.</p><p>
  <i>“Really.” The Brigadier’s expression is rapidly shifting to one of resignation. “So who’s the world-ending threat this time?” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Oi,” Nine says. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Too soon?” Twelve mutters. </i>
</p><p>(NEW! Russian translation available: <a href="http://whosanta.diary.ru/p201817095.htm">whosanta</a>, <a href="http://ficbook.net/readfic/2740155">ficbook.net</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Fine Mess

**Author's Note:**

> I have a thing for characters from the past getting confronted by the crazy turns their lives will take in the future and getting to jawdrop/flail over it. After _Death in Heaven_ I really just wanted to confront the Brigadier of Pertwee-era who with Missy. Then Nine shoehorned his way into the fic (because who doesn't like Nine?) and it ended up as a multi-era sass fest. I regret nothing.

The Doctor arranges his test tubes neatly in a line, adds his beaker of chronon particle-infused solution to the row, and conscientiously turns down the heat on the Bunsen burner.

“You’re going to cause a massive explosion, you know,” Missy says, amused, pausing her stroll through the TARDIS corridors to stick her head into the lab.

“Am not,” the Doctor murmurs reflexively, turning down the Bunsen burner a smidge more just to be safe. Not that it isn’t safe already. It’s perfectly safe. He’s at least 80% sure that it’s perfectly, completely safe.

“A ten per cent chronon solution titrated with mercury over high heat?” The Doctor doesn’t look up, but he doesn’t have to; the Master’s raised eyebrow is clearly audible in her voice. “ _Massive_ explosion. You’ll be lucky if you don’t rip the TARDIS apart.”

“ _Low_ heat,” the Doctor corrects, nudging the Bunsen burner down another tiny amount. He’s really 70% sure that nothing of the sort is going to happen. “And if it did, it wouldn’t be strong enough to rip the whole TARDIS apart.”

“Hmm.” Missy leans in further, taking in the settings on the Mix-o-tron. “No, you’re probably right. The hole in space-time would be localized to this room. But you haven’t let me repair the helmic regulators, so you’ll be sucked right through. _I’ll_ have to go find wherever you’d landed and come pick you up.”

“Isomorphic controls,” the Doctor points out. “You can’t fly the TARDIS.”

Missy laughs, deep and rolling and amused. “My _dear_ Doctor,” she chuckles. A manicured finger taps his chin; reflexively he looks up from his test tubes and is rewarded with a cheeky kiss. From a distance of inches, the Master smiles up at him. “The adorable thing is that you really believe that.”

He does believe that. He really does. He’s about sixty percent sure that Missy can’t fly the TARDIS. Just about as sure as he is that this isn’t going to explode.

“This isn’t going to explode,” the Doctor repeats out loud, “so it doesn’t matter.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Missy twirls on one heel and heads back out of the lab. “Do make sure you’ve got your sonic on you,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ll need it to locate you once you’ve flung yourself through all of time and space.”

“It’s fine!” the Doctor calls back. Patting his pocket is a sheer reflex action – yes, trusty old sonic, right where it ought to be.

Maybe he’ll lower that heat just a _leetle_ bit more. Not that he’s worried. He’s really fifty percent sure that nothing bad is going to happen. “And you can’t fly the TARDIS anyway!” he shouts.

Her laughter echoes back to him down the corridor. No matter what regeneration she’s in, the Master always has a really great laugh. The Doctor smiles, involuntarily, and doesn’t pay attention to which way he’s turning the knob on the Bunsen burner.

The Doctor realizes his mistake just in time to think _she’ll never let me live this one down._ Then, predictably, the hole in space-time opens up, the helmic regulators fail in a burst of sparks, and the resulting vacuum sucks him through.

* * *

The Doctor’s had a lot of experiences with holes in space-time. They’re technically paradoxes, but for all that they respect a surprising number of natural laws. In this case it means that the Doctor already knows where he’s going to end up. He flies backwards along his own timeline until he smacks into the giant sixth-dimensional wall that is the end of the Time War, bounces, and hits the grating of his own TARDIS with a thud.

“Oi!” a heavily Northern-accented voice shouts. “What are you doing?”

The Doctor, prone on the uncomfortable metal grille that this regeneration had decorated his TARDIS with, wheezes. In his mind he apologizes to every companion who’d ever complained about his TARDIS decorating sense, with the specific exception of Missy.

“Here, come on, get up then,” the voice says, more irritated. A hand appears in the Doctor’s frame of vision. He accepts it almost automatically and lets it haul him to his feet.

“Doctor,” he greets, once he’s got his breath back.

The other man raises an eyebrow, possibly hoping it’ll distract his future regeneration from the size of his ears. “Oh, look, it’s me,” he says with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Don’t tell me. This is some wild attempt to go back in time and undo what we did with the Moment, isn’t it? And you hit the Time War and bounced? Typical. Just typical. That’s me all over.”

“Two out of five,” the future Doctor says frostily. “Lab experiment gone wrong. Localized hole in time and space. Sucked through, hit the Time War, bounced, landed here.”

“Pity it didn’t blow us up,” the earlier Doctor mutters.

“Our luck’s better than that.”

“That’s a matter of some debate.” The post-War Doctor sighs. Speaking with a distinct lack of enthusaism, he offers, “Well, shall I drop you off?”

“Yes, please do,” the future Doctor begins. “I was – wait, what?” An unpleasantly familiar sucking sensation is pulling him backwards. He turns and sees another hole in time and space opening up.

“I don’t suppose your helmic regulators are in working order?” he asks without much optimism. He remembers how bad he was at TARDIS maintenance right after the War.

The post-War Doctor doesn’t even dignify that with an answer. “Looks like you weren’t the only thing to hit the Time War and bounce,” he snarks instead. “This is going to be bumpy.”

“Hang on!” the Doctor cries.

* * *

Hitting industrial linoleum floor is, actually, better than hitting metal grating. The Doctor files this information away for future reference, though he doubts Missy would let him get away with putting either in his TARDIS, not if he wants her to stay aboard. And as he does, rather, want her to stay aboard, he’s willing to part with the linoleum. The sacrifices he’s willing to make for her, he thinks, pushing himself to his feet.

“Well, that was unexpected,” a cultured voice remarks. “I was _trying_ to make another dematerialization circuit, but I seem to have gotten something to materialize instead.”

“And violated several laws of time, space and conservation of matter while you’re at it,” the Northern voice adds. “ _Ow._ ”

The latest Doctor looks over, already knowing what he’s going to see. His post-War self is being hauled to his feet by his UNIT-era self, velvet jacket, cape and all. It’s his old UNIT lab, complete with defunct TARDIS in the corner and tables laden with late-twentieth-century scientific equipment against every wall.

“Well, I admit it didn’t go exactly as planned,” his third self says defensively. “But really, what can you expect when the Time Lords locked away my knowledge of chronodynamics and higher-order maths?”

“I don’t think it was entirely your fault,” the latest Doctor admits reluctantly. “I was conducting a little experiment of my own, and I suspect the two interacted oddly.” He’s going to have to put up with a _month_ of _I-told-you-so_ s from the Master. Always assuming she overcomes the isomorphic locks on the control panel and comes to pick him up.

Oh, who is he kidding? Of course she can override the locks. It’s perfectly impossible, so she’ll probably have it done before tea. Then she’ll wait another week before picking him up just to make him squirm.

The Doctor realizes he’s smiling. He didn’t even think, just now, to doubt that she _would_ pick him up. His brilliant, stubborn, proud Master. Sometimes he loves her so much he can barely stand it.

“We shouldn’t even _be_ here,” the post-War Doctor is saying angrily.

“Relax,” the UNIT Doctor says with some asperity. “It’s irregular, I grant you that, but it’s hardly the first time we’ve crossed our own time streams, and I’ll wager it won’t be the last.”

“But the event horizon of the War – ”

“Hush,” the latest Doctor says repressively. “Future knowledge.”

“Fine,” the post-War Doctor sulks.

“Sorry,” the latest Doctor says to the UNIT Doctor.

“I understand,” the UNIT Doctor says, clearly not understanding at all. He looks the leather-jacketed Doctor over somewhat skeptically. “And you’re my… tenth self?”

“Ninth,” the big-eared Doctor says dangerously.

Three frowns. “I’m sure I counted it out quite carefully – ”

“Don’t,” the post-War Doctor advises. “I’m Ninth. That’s the end of it. And you’re…” He glances at the current Doctor and frowns.

“Twelfth.”

“ _Really,_ ” Three says scathingly.

The self-proclaimed Twelfth Doctor raises his eyebrows. “Well, that does seem to be how we’re playing it today.”

“Fine,” Three says in exasperation. “Be that way. See if I care – ”

“Doctor!” a familiar male voice bellows. The doors to the lab slam open and rebound against the far walls. “Doctor, is everything all right in here?”

“Brigadier!” Twelve cries, delighted.

“Brigadier,” Nine mutters moodily.

“Brigadier,” Three says pacifyingly. “Everything is absolutely fine. I was just, er, having a chat with these fine gentlemen – ”

The Brigadier scans the lab and deigns to holster his gun, though he keeps his look of utter skepticism loaded and ready. “Were either of these _fine gentlemen_ responsible for the sonic boom that just swept UNIT HQ?” he demands.

“Ah,” Twelve says awkwardly. “Yes. That would be me. Sorry – ”

“Sorry?” the Brigadier demands. “Do you have any idea – ”

“Really, my dear Brigadier – ”

“Hush,” the Brigadier says to Three. He returns his gaze to Twelve, then flicks it over to Nine. “And who are you two, exactly? You’re not wearing passes. How did you get in?”

“The same way the sonic boom did,” Twelve says. “Terribly sorry. I was conducting a few experiments in my TARDIS – ”

“You have one of those infernal machines too?” The Brigadier looks furious. “Are you a Time Lord?”

“Of course he’s a Time Lord,” Nine scoffs. “We’re all Time Lords.”

“Are they megalomaniacs?” the Brigadier demands, looking at his Doctor. “Like your old school friend I have locked up in Stangmoor Prison?”

“Hey,” Nine says, stung.

“I go to meetings for that now,” Twelve says truthfully.

Three stares at him. “You do?”

Twelve nods. His attendance had been the Mistress’ condition for going as well. Honestly, though, he isn’t entirely sure the meetings are having the desired effect. Villains Anonymous sounded all well and good – and a hell of a lot better than couples’ counselling, which had been Clara’s suggestion – but there are times when it feels more like a meet & greet/networking event/open brainstorming session for evildoers than an actual mutual aid fellowship.

“Actually, Brigadier, you’ll find they’re two of my future selves,” Three is explaining in a voice that makes it perfectly clear that this is all quite normal, and rational, and the Brigadier has absolutely nothing to be upset over. “You remember the time we visited the negative dimension, when you met two of my past selves? Well, this is a great deal like that, only in reverse.”

“And Omega isn’t involved,” Twelve adds helpfully.

“Really.” The Brigadier’s expression is rapidly shifting to one of resignation. “So who’s the world-ending threat this time?”

“Oi,” Nine says.

“Too soon?” Twelve mutters, _sotto voce_.

“There’s no threat,” Three says placatingly. “You heard my future self. Just an experiment gone wrong.”

Twelve turns on the charm and smiles at the Brigadier. “I apologize, but I’m afraid we’ll have to impose on your hospitality for a little while,” he says. “My TARDIS will be here to pick us up just as soon as she stops spinning light over teakettle. Could be a couple of days, though. I really had the poor girl going.”

(He’s decided, wisely, _not_ to mention the Master. If he’s lucky, the Brigadier will never realize exactly who is coming to pick the future Doctors up.)

“Of course you did,” the Brigadier sighs. “That infernal machine of yours, Doctor…”

“Don’t insult the TARDIS,” Nine snaps.

“Should I even bother assigning you quarters? Or will you be content to just hang from the rafters here in your lab?”

“They’ll sleep in my TARDIS, of course,” Three says, affronted. “She may not be vortex-worthy, but the bedrooms are still perfectly functional, thank you. Haven’t you wondered where _I’ve_ been sleeping?”

“No,” the Brigadier says with perfect unconcern. “And I’m sure you won’t mind if I follow up a few avenues of inquiry on my own.”

“I assure you it won’t do a bit of good,” Twelve says. “I already told you why we’re here, and there’s nothing to be done but wait for my TARDIS to come pick us up.”

“All the same,” the Brigadier says. “Doctors.” He nods and strides off.

“I’d forgotten how annoying he was,” Nine mutters.

“He’s got a good heart,” Three says sharply.

“And a terrible mind.”

“He cares about us,” Twelve says simply. “He may not know how to show it, but he cares. And that’s valuable.” He slants a look at Nine. “You shouldn’t disparage it.”

Nine scoffs and folds his arms.

He sighs. “What are you working on?” he asks the present-day Doctor, hoping to keep the peace.

“A replacement for my dematerialization circuit,” Three says hopefully. “Maybe you could lend a hand?”

“Er,” says Twelve.

* * *

Calling the next two days awkward is something of an understatement. The present-day Doctor refuses to take _no, sorry, I really can’t mess with the timeline_ as an answer and keeps trying to beg, bribe or wheedle information about he dematerialization circuit out of his future selves. The post-War Doctor is snappish and standoffish, and his nightmares wake the other two up six times before the UNIT Doctor has a discreet word with his TARDIS and moves all their bedrooms farther apart. The latest Doctor is just trying to get out of this mess with the timelines still mostly intact.

“But I don’t see _why_ you won’t help me,” Three is saying for the fiftieth time, plaintive and annoyed.

“Because we both remember being stuck on Earth for the whole of our sentence,” Nine snaps, well beyond the end of his admittedly limited patience. “So we’re not going to help get you off it early.”

“Surely you remember how infuriating it was!” Three cries. “What is this, a bizarrely self-directed case of schadenfreude?”

“It’s called _not destroying the entire universe through incautious creation of paradoxes_ ,” Twelve shouts, nearing the end of his own patience. The words bounce off the walls and echo back to them, and Nine flinches.

There’s an uncomfortable pause.

“Oh, very well,” Three says at last. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” He frowns, casting about for a safer topic. “Who are you travelling with these days?”

“No one,” Nine says flatly. “Can’t trust anyone else near me.”

“Really,” Three sighs. “Aren’t you getting a bit tired of all of this melodrama?” He’s got a fair point. The post-War Doctor has been unusually mopey, even for him.

“No,” Nine says. He turns a sneering gaze to Twelve. “I suppose you’ve filled the TARDIS back up again?”

“Not exactly,” Twelve says evasively. “I mean, there’s Clara, but she’s part-time, as it were. Doesn’t live on board. So really I’ve just got the one, er – ”

“Companion,” Three supplies.

“Nooooo,” Twelve disagrees, shaking his head vehemently. “No, I don’t think we can call her a Companion. She wouldn’t like the term. Not at all.” He thinks about his sex life, and how very much he wants to keep having one. “In fact, I strongly recommend we never use that term.”

“What term does she prefer?” Three asks gamely.

Nine snorts. “Who cares? She’ll be a Companion if I say she is. Just another stupid ape.”

“No,” Twelve says again, offended on the Master’s behalf. “No, she isn’t, actually.”

Nine rolls his eyes. “Don’t get sentimental,” he says cuttingly. “They’re _all_ apes. Human or otherwise, doesn’t matter.”

“Time Lords aren’t apes,” Three protests.

“Well she isn’t a Time Lord, now is she?”

“How do you know that?” Three challenges. “She _could_ be a Time Lord! Susan was a Time Lord. And that time I met my fourth self Romana was travelling with me. Why shouldn’t _he_ be travelling with a Time Lord?”

“Because he can’t be, that’s why.”

“Let’s find out then, shall we?” Three swivels to Twelve. “ _Are_ you travelling with a Time Lord?”

“Er,” Twelve says weakly.

“Go on then,” Nine says impatiently. “Tell him the truth. Tell him you’re not travelling with a Time Lord.”

“Well about that,” Twelve says, coughing and shuffling his feet. “Which do you want me to do? Because actually – ”

“A-hah!” Three says triumphantly. “They’re mutually contradictory, aren’t they? You _are_ travelling with a Time Lord!”

“He _can’t_ be!” Nine shouts. “And you!” He turns on Twelve. “Encouraging him! Letting him think – ”

“And what exactly shouldn’t I let him think?” Twelve demands.

“Why are you so insistent he can’t be travelling with a Time Lord?” Three demands.

“Because there are no other Time Lords anymore!” Nine shouts.

A ringing silence greets this proclamation. Twelve bites his tongue, mentally extending certain Gallifreyan senses to tally up snarls in Time. Surprisingly few, actually. Maybe talking about this isn’t as dangerous as he’d thought.

He thinks it through. After all, in the normal way of things, both of his past regenerations will forget these events entirely as soon as the timelines snap back into sync. Twelve’s been worried that the Time War would muck up that very natural process, since the Time War had cut across all timestreams. Had, in effect, taken place simultaneously at all times at once, and at none of them at all. But if Nine can blurt out spoilers for the War on this side of the singularity, and there’s nothing more than the faintest whiff of tachyon particles, already dissipating…

Three is shaking his head, looking bewildered. “My dear future self,” he tries. “There are billions of other Time Lords.”

“Not any more they’re not,” Nine says heavily. “Tell him,” he adds to Twelve.

“There aren’t billions of other Time Lords any more,” Twelve says obediently, testing the limits of the timeline’s tolerance.

“In fact there aren’t _any_ other Time Lords any more,” Nine goes on.

Twelve doesn’t say a word.

“Tell him,” Nine prompts.

Twelve hesitates.

Nine says again, more sharply, “ _Tell him.”_

Twelve frowns and brings one hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose. “You know, looking back on it, I’ve always wondered how exactly I could be so dense.”

“What?” says Three, confused.

“What?” says Nine, dangerously.

“Dense,” Twelve repeats, more loudly. “Dense enough to think I was really the only one.”

Nine suddenly seems to loom over the other two Time Lords, edgy and threatening. “Whatever you’re saying,” he spits, “come out and say it.”

“You know perfectly well I can’t,” Twelve snaps back. There’s dancing around it, and then there’s saying it right out. And yet… he takes a deep breath. Still no stink of burned tachyon particles in the air.

Time is tolerating this conversation surprisingly well. It makes him think he could stretch it a little further. Slowly he says, “Perhaps…”

He trails off. The other two don’t do anything so obvious as hold their breaths, but they’re hanging on the words the oldest of them is about to say.

“Pop quiz,” the future Doctor says suddenly. “Now this is an entirely theoretical scenario, with absolutely no relevance to anything that has happened or might yet happen in your future – ”

Nine rolls his eyes. Three cuts him off impatiently, “Yes, yes, get on with it.”

“Imagine there’s a war,” Twelve, deadly serious. “A massive war, the kind of war that’s going to make the term _war_ obsolete because the term’s not nearly big enough to contain it. The Time Lords versus the Daleks.”

“Impossible,” Three scoffs.

“ _Hypothetical_ ,” Nine snorts disdainfully. “You’re not even _trying_.”

Twelve ignores them both. “Now imagine that someone ended this war. And that they did it in the worst way imaginable. They wiped out _both_ species. The Daleks and the Time Lords, poof, gone. In a single instant. Are you with me?”

Three sputters. “Utterly ludicrous!” he cries. “Simply impossible. Why, the technology would have to be – it’s ridiculous, that’s what. The laws of conservation of time… the power requirements…” he falters and stumbles to a halt, eyes growing wide under the combined gazes of his two future selves. “Rassilon, Omega and the Other,” he breathes, fervent.

“Not anymore,” Nine says flatly.

“And probably don’t mention that first name ever again,” Twelve adds, hearing something dark and cold slip into his tone. “There’s a good lad.”

“Get on with the history lesson,” Nine says, tense.

“Right.” Twelve shakes his head. “Right. Well then. Imagine that this destruction I’ve just described – an atom bomb on a scale never before seen, double genocide, all the rest – was perpetrated by a single Time Lord. And that Time Lord survived the War.”

“I’m not hearing a question,” Nine snarks.

“Here’s the question: _who is it?”_

Three’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “Who is _who_?”

“The survivor,” Twelve says. “The murderer. Who is it?”

“Trick question,” Nine says. “It’s us, of course.”

“Is it,” Twelve says. It isn’t a question.

“Of course it isn’t us!” Three snaps. “What a ludicrous notion! We’re not capable of it. Anyway, survival isn’t our primary mandate. We’re interested in exploration, knowledge, science – ”

“Say that again,” Nine says suddenly.

“Say what?”

“What you just said.”

“I said we’re interested in science – ”

“No,” Twelve cuts in. “He means what you said before that.”

Three blinks. “I said survival isn’t our primary mandate.”

Nine stares at him, eyes slowly widening.

“He’s right, isn’t he?” Twelve says, quiet and persuasive. “We’re never the first person on the lifeboat. We’re not always ready to cut our losses and run. We aren’t obsessed with surviving death.” He pauses. “Massive destruction we’re capable of. You know it. I know it. Even _he_ knows it,” gesturing at Three, who bristles but doesn’t try to deny it. “But sheer, stubborn, stupid survival?”

“I wish I hadn’t,” Nine whispers. Three turns pale as a sheet.

“Massive cataclysm,” Twelve repeats. “Entire Time Lord race wiped out. One survivor and only one. _Who is it?_ ”

“It’s the Master,” the Brigadier says, like it’s obvious, and all three of the Doctors jump at once.

“For what it’s worth, I entirely agree with him,” the Master adds from the Brigadier’s side.

“When did _you_ two get in here?” Three demands.

“About halfway through the part where I apparently get to murder the entire Time Lord race,” the Master says gleefully. He’s wearing old-fashioned shackles that have _Property of Stangmoor Prison_ stamped on them, his beard and hair are slightly unkempt, and while he’s still dressed in his usual black the clothes are more than a bit dusty and rumpled. But he’s grinning like a child on Christmas at the thought of getting to wipe out his own species, actually rubbing his chained hands together in anticipation, a chuckle rumbling in his chest.

Three is staring at him, green around the gills. Nine scowls and shoves a trash can in his arms. “Don’t chuck up,” he advises, then turns to the Master. “And wipe that grin off your face. You decide to take a nice vacation in the Eye of Harmony long before we get to that point. I’m the one who pushes the button, and one day I’m going to be right there in Hell next to you for it. Which ought to make you happy, I guess, since that’s more or less what you always wanted.”

“I wouldn’t have minded you being right next to me on the mortal coil for a while either,” the Master says, hurt. “So what was the point of all of this then? Why have the Brigadier lug me out of storage if you’re just going to tell me that Mommy always gives you the better presents?”

“That’s just creepy,” Nine says in disgust.

“And we didn’t have the Brigadier ‘lug you out of storage’,” Three adds. He turns to the Brigadier. “Why _did_ you fetch him out?”

The Brigadier raises both eyebrows. “Two of your future selves popping into the timeline out of nowhere, and you’re surprised that I thought the _evil_ Time Lord might be involved?”

“I’m not evil,” the Master protests. “Just misunderstood.”

“And obviously listening to far too much Earth music,” Nine mutters.

“Well, I can assure you he isn’t behind it,” Twelve cuts in. “As I’ve told you already, I was just working on a little time experiment in my TARDIS, and this is the result. Completely self-contained and utterly harmless. As soon as the TARDIS shows up to collect me I’ll be out of your hair, and I’ll drop Nine here off in his proper place while I’m at it.”

“Forgive me for worrying,” the Brigadier says sarcastically. “I seem to recall someone saying something once about how having multiple versions in one place is a threat to all of space and time. That’s the sort of thing I generally object to, and it’s also this one’s stock in trade.” His swagger stick pokes into the chained Master’s shoulder.

Twelve shrugs. “Well, suit yourself. He’s not going to be able to do anything besides wait, just like the rest of us. But there’s no harm in his being here. Quite the reverse, actually. Any moment now my ride is going to arrive and there’s someone he’ll quite like to meet.”

“Another Companion?” The Master widens his eyes and opens his mouth in faux glee. “Oh, Doctor, _please_ introduce me to the latest in your parade of insipid sidekicks. I’m simply _dying_ to be better acquainted with the barely-evolved ape who’s managed to convince you to travel space and time at _her_ side – ”

“Maybe if you tried regenerating with tits next time,” Nine suggests sweetly.

Twelve chokes, hastily turning off his sonic screwdriver.

“Just a moment,” Three says accusingly. “Were you _recording_ that?”

“It was going to be such excellent blackmail material,” Twelve says mournfully, fiddling with a few sonic settings and shooting Nine a dirty look. “Then _you_ had to go ruining it.”

“Gentlemen,” the Brigadier says in the tone of a man who is very close to losing his patience and ordering a targeted air strike. “Perhaps we could focus on the issue at hand?”

“Maybe I can just edit out the last few seconds of the recording,” the Doctor mutters.

“Not unless you’re going to fiddle with my memory as well,” the Master says, having cottoned on fairly quickly that this is meant to be blackmail material against _him_.

“Not really an option,” Twelve sighs, poking a mental tendril wistfully against the cast-iron of the Master’s mental shields.

“Maybe if you’d paid attention in psychic class,” the Master suggests sweetly.

“Maybe if you _hadn’t_ paid attention in _psycho_ _class_ ,” Three snipes back.

The Master clutches at his chest, chains rattling. “I’m wounded, Doctor. Right in the hearts.”

“Not yet you’re not,” Nine mutters. “Give it time.”

“ _Gentlemen_ ,” the Brigadier tries again. It’s strident enough that everyone in the room actually falls silent.

Which lets them all clearly hear the wheeze of an ancient Type-40 TARDIS trying valiantly to rematerialize.

Twelve smiles. “That’s my ride,” he says to the room at large. Over his shoulder he calls, “And what kind of time do you call this?”

The TARDIS door swings open. “My time,” a female voice purrs dangerously.

“As always,” the Doctor mutters.

“Madam,” the Brigadier says, coming to attention and bowing. His gaze remains locked on the new arrival even after he straightens, which is how he manages to miss the wide-eyed shock on the faces of Nine, Three and the Master. “I am Brigadier – ”

“Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart of UNIT,” Missy drawls, sashaying forwards. She extends her hand with a coquettish smile. The Brigadier takes it obligingly and raises it to his lips.

Everyone else in the room chokes.

“I believe you have me at a disadvantage,” the Brigadier adds courteously.

“Nonsense,” she smiles. “We’ve been introduced.”

The Brigadier blinks. “Perhaps you’d refresh my memory?”

“Mmmm.” She laughs. “Call me Missy. Gets confusing otherwise.” She casts her gaze around the room as she steps back and draws the Doctor’s arm through hers. “My, my, the place _is_ crowded,” she says disapprovingly to the Doctor. “Did you have to sweep up _all_ of time and space with you? I _told_ you to let me fix the helmic regulators.”

“Two past regenerations is hardly _all of time and space_ ,” the Doctor protests. “Besides, I remember what happened last time you got your hands on my helmic regulators.”

“Rode them hard and put them away wet, as I recall,” Missy murmurs. Everyone in the room chokes again.

(Even the Brigadier. He may not have any idea what a bloody helmic regulator is supposed to be, but knows an innuendo when he hears it, thank you very much.)

Missy adds, “I don’t recall you complaining.”

“That’s because I wasn’t,” Twelve promises. The two future TARDIS travellers seem to have forgotten the rest of the room exists. Several of the other inhabitants are convinced they’re about to start tearing each others’ clothes off here and now.

Fortunately for everyone else’s state of mind, the Master chooses this moment to say to Nine, _sotto voce_ , “I see what you were saying about the tits.”

“Ugh.” Missy rolls her eyes dramatically and drops the Doctor’s arm in favor of crossing hers over her chest and glaring. “No wonder it took us so long to get a leg over if that’s how you react every time you get close.”

“I seem to recall getting a leg over quite often,” the Master snarks back. Without anyone quite noticing how he’s inched his way from the Brigadier’s side over to Three’s. Now he presses himself up against Three’s back and runs his hands down a single, velvet-clad sleeve.

The chains clank as he do it. Nine swallows hard. Twelve looks at them speculatively.

Missy jabs her elbow into Twelve’s side and hisses, “Don’t even _think_ about it. The chains are going on quite the other way around in _these_ regenerations, laddie.”

Twelve nods like a bobblehead doll. “We can do that,” he says quickly.

“Hang on a second,” the Brigadier says. He looks from the Master to Missy. “ _What_ did you say your name was?”

“Missy,” Nine says in thrilled astonishment. He’s looking back and forth from Missy to his own future self, and now that the initial shock has worn off he’s wearing an expression of such glee it makes the Master’s earlier _hooray-I-get-to-murder-my-species_ face look positively hangdog. “Her name is _Missy_. You’re _alive,_ you survived, _oh_ , thank _Rassilon_ – ”

“Don’t say that name,” Twelve and Missy snap simultaneously.

“Well, this has been a lovely visit,” the Master cuts in. “So good to see you all. But I think you’d better be going.”

“Yes, I agree,” Three says.

“What?” Nine says, shaking himself out of his shock. “Why?”

“Because any minute now the Brigadier is going to put two and two together and come up with four,” Missy says. “And he’s already maxed out his lifetime quota on shooting me.”

“He didn’t _actually_ shoot you,” her Doctor points out pedantically. “You teleported out before the beam hit home. And that wasn’t _technically_ him. It was a Cyberman version of him.”

“Whom you saluted, as I recall, so let’s not mince identities,” Missy shoots back. She hooks her arm back through her Doctor’s. “Right then. Well, it’s been lovely. Let’s do tea sometime.”

“Best of luck with the future,” her Doctor adds.

“Missy,” the Brigadier repeats slowly. “Hang on. What’s that short for?”

“How do you know it’s short for something?” Three asks leadingly. “Maybe it’s like saying _Miss_.”

“Because he already knows what it’s short for,” the Master answers his Doctor. “He just likes working it out out loud.”

“And it’s short for Mistress, of course,” Missy says cheerfully. “Right, we’ll be off. Coming, Nine?”

“Way ahead of you,” Nine says, heading into the TARDIS. His muffled voice comes back out. “Oh, you’ve redecorated.”

Missy and Twelve roll their eyes at each other. Silently, they mouth the next words along with Nine: _“I don’t like it.”_

“You never do,” Twelve calls, annoyed.

“And earlier,” the Brigadier says, still pursuing his train of thought, “that rude Northern Doctor suggested that maybe the Master try regenerating as a woman – ”

“That’s not _exactly_ what he said,” the Master points out.

“Shush, dear, he’s trying to be polite,” Three shushes.

“Whatever for?”

“Any advice for us, before you go?” Three asks, addressing the future TARDIS two.

“Just ask yourself what I’d do,” the Doctor suggests.

“Yes, and then do the exact opposite,” Missy concludes. Twelve smiles down at her, chuckling.

“Ugh, that’s positively saccharine,” the Master grumps, rolling his eyes. “What happened to our lovely banter? The whole _yin to my yang_ vibe we had going on? Eternal enemies, locked in an endless struggle till the stars burn out, etcetera?”

“Actual sex?” Missy suggests sweetly.

“Did you just actually _say_ etcetera?” Twelve wants to know.

The Master makes an exaggerated gagging motion. “Get out of here before I hurl.”

“So if Time Lords can change gender, and Missy is _short for Mistress_ – ” the Brigadier roars, hand going for his weapon.

“Bye!” Missy trills, running for the TARDIS. Her Doctor, arm still linked with hers, has no choice but to come along with her.

“Thanks for everything!” he shouts over his shoulder. The TARDIS door slams shut. Almost immediately, the sound of the Time Rotor fills the room.

“Come back here!” the Brigadier yells. He starts towards the TARDIS, then thinks better of it. Instead he runs out of the room, shouting for UNIT guards as he goes.

As soon as he’s gone, the TARDIS door swings open again. “I know you won’t take my advice,” Missy calls out to the Master. “But the whole yin-and-yang thing? Drop it. I’m getting a _lot_ more sex these days.” She winks.

“Dear, hands and feet inside the TARDIS,” Twelve’s voice calls.

“Ta!” Missy laughs, ducking back inside.

With a wheeze and a groan, the future TARDIS disappears.

Silence reigns for a moment in the newly empty lab.

“Well,” UNIT’s scientific advisor says somewhat blankly. “That was an interesting glimpse into our own future.”

“Pity we won’t be able to retain it,” the Master says morosely. “It would be nice to have that mental image of all the Time Lords burning to keep me warm at night.”

“However will you manage,” Three says, deadpan.

The Master leers, gazing up at the Doctor through thick lashes. “Maybe you can think of some other way to keep me warm?” he suggests.

“Ugh, while you think of murdering our entire people? How am _I_ ever supposed to sleep again after that?” He’s looking green again.

The Master hums speculatively, gaze flickering to the space where the old TARDIS disappeared. “Well,” he muses. “We’re still caught up in the backwash from the time overlaps, after all. It’ll linger in this room for, oh, fifteen minutes?”

“Probably half an hour,” the Doctor says, sniffing the air slightly to take in the scent of burnt tachyon particles.

“So, as long as we stay here,” the Master concludes, “the next half hour or so will probably get deleted from our minds along with the rest of their visit, once the backwash subsides.”

The Doctor starts to grin. “So what you’re saying is, the next half hour doesn’t count?”

“Entirely guilt-free,” the Master promises, sidling closer. “Absolutely, positively no nightmares. Guaranteed.”

The Doctor seizes the center link of the Stangmoor Prison shackles. “And you’re already so nicely tied up for me,” he smiles.

* * *

Halfway down the hall and now well clear of the backlash, the Brigadier stops dead and tries to remember what he was so upset about a moment ago. Nothing comes to mind. He turns on his heel, intending to go back and ask the Doctor – he’s sure it had _something_ to do with the Doctor. But then the strange, sibilant sound of a Gallifreyan endearment reaches his ears, and he suddenly decides he has better things to do with his time.

**Author's Note:**

> While I'm annoyed that _Death in Heaven_ ended with yet another Temporary Character Death for the Master, thereby depriving us of the absolute gold that would have been Gomez!Master in UNIT custody, even I had to cackle at the Brigadier finally, _finally_ getting to shoot the Master right in her lying mouth. That's got to have been a lifelong ambition of his.


End file.
